


Blister in the Sun

by the-wandering-whumper (water4willows)



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo Fics [4]
Category: Strike Back
Genre: Burns, Hidden Injury, Hiding an injury, Plane Crash, Support, Whump, collapse, concussion, hurt Damien Scott, hurt michael stonebridge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-15 10:33:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20864777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/water4willows/pseuds/the-wandering-whumper
Summary: A plane crash in the middle of the dessert. A long, slow trudge towards home. It’s just a normal day in the life of Michael Stonebridge and Damien Scott. Or would be, if someone weren’t keeping secrets and hiding a serious injury.





	Blister in the Sun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lurking_whumper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lurking_whumper/gifts).

> This is my fill for the “Hiding an Injury” square on my Bad Things Happen Bingo card.
> 
> Big thank you to Jo (fyeahvulnerablemen on Tumblr) for the beta.

The sand is the worst part. The thirst he can ignore. The throbbing pain at his side he can push away. But the sand? It’s like a hostile invader. It infiltrates everything: the crevices of his skin, his mouth, his nose and lungs. It makes him want to cough, but he resists. The last time he coughed he nearly passed out. Scott nearly noticed, and Michael can’t have that. If there’s any hope of them reaching civilization before either one or both of them dies of dehydration, he has to stay on his feet. He has to keep moving. One heavy boot in front of the other. A march. A death march he can’t afford to abort.

Behind them the smoke from their crashed plane can still be seen over the tall, wind dimpled dunes of the desert. Shifting sand constantly changes the landscape but the smoke lingers in the sky like a headstone marking the place where they buried the pilot in the sand. Dead. Like the radio and their cell phones, and Michael maybe, if they don’t find help soon.

There’s a piece of shrapnel in his side. It’s buried so deep he didn’t dare pull it out after he woke up in the sand, 20 feet from their downed plane. He bandaged it with shaking hands and then pulled Damien from the crumpled wreckage. One half of his partner’s face is burned and bloodied, and he’s got one hell of a concussion, but he’s alive and awake now and even answered all of Stonebridge’s stupid questions.

What’s your name? What year is it? Who’s the president of the United States? “ _ Aw, Mikey, don’t make me say his name! _ ”

Alive, and that’s all that matters. Scott doesn’t even notice the blood on his shirt or the way he winces when he pulls the American up onto his feet, throws his arm around his shoulders, and starts walking. It’s better this way.

“Dude. Are you okay?”

Michael has stopped mid-stride and didn’t even notice. His breaths come in stuttered wheezing breaths as sweat pours down his face, but he somehow manages a smile. He wants to tell Scott that he’s pretty sure he’s at the end of his rope, that he’s not sure he can go any further under this vicious desert sun, but one look at his partner’s unequal pupils and bloodied face and he keeps his mouth shut. He can do this. He can save them both. He can push forward until they find help. He has to. There’s no question anymore.

Michael touches his side lightly and feels dried blood flake under his fingertips. He takes as steadying a breath as he can manage and then lies. “Never better. Let’s keep going, eh?”

Scott nods and they push on.

They have no water, no GPS. The sun beats down on their heads relentlessly. There is nothing to be seen for miles around, just shifting dunes and the occasional pathetic patch of desert grass. He can tell an hour or so into their awkward trudge through the sand that he’s soaked the bandage. He can feel the blood sliding down his side and soaking into his jeans. He can no longer walk a straight line either and Scott is starting to notice. He keeps giving Michael these little worried sidelong glances when he thinks Michael isn’t paying attention. But Michael is paying attention. The pain makes it impossible not to. Every time he lifts his foot to take another step forward pain tears up his side. It gets in under his ribcage and even down into his groin. He’s limping now, too, and Scott’s increasing weight at his other side is not helping matters much. 

They don’t talk, which is so unusual for them, Michael figures it’s the true measure of how very fucked they really are. Still, he pushes on. Scott tries to help, but even his efforts are being thwarted by the heat, lack of water, and that ever present ball of burning matter in the sky. There is no reprieve. No way to shield themselves and all of a sudden, Michael is on his back, the hot sand burning his skin as Scott looms over him looking concerned. He nearly screams when Scott’s hand lands directly over the place where the shrapnel is embedded in his skin. 

Michael licks at his impossibly dry lips as the sound of tearing fabric fills the air. Scott must find what he’s looking for a moment later because he’s silent for a beat. 

Michael can feel himself slipping. He clings to consciousness like a free climber to his ledge, but it’s no use. Hours of blood loss and dehydration and pushing his body past its limits catch up to him as his eyes roll up into his head. 

The last thing he hears is Scott’s frantic voice.

“You son of a bitch. You stupid, fucking son of a bitch.”

It’s the same thing he hears when he opens his eyes days later in a hospital he’s pretty sure doesn’t warrant the name. The dusty, dirty, make-shift kind they usually only run into in war zones. Scott is in a chair by his bed, one half of his face covered in bandages, the other glaring over at him.

“Well look who finally decided to grace us with his presence,” the American snorts, the derision in his voice clear as day. Michael takes stock of himself before responding. Dirty room but pristine sheets. A little scratchy, but bearable. They’ve done a good job of bandaging his abdomen and the tubing for the drain sneaking out of his side and the IV running up his arm is clean. It’s okay. Everything is going to be okay.

He rubs absently at the place where the shrapnel entered his body. “We made it then?”

Scott looks like he’s trying very hard not to roll his good eye. “Yeah we made it. Barely. No thanks to you.”

Michael cocks an eyebrow, silently asking his next question as Scott sighs dramatically.

“You were bleeding out. Honestly, I’m not sure how you managed to get us as far as you did before keeling over. Lucky for you, there was a town just over the next hill. I was able to find some help.

“And I’m gonna be fine, thank you for asking,” Scott adds with a scowl. “Moderate concussion and some superficial burns.”

“Brilliant. It would be a shame to ruin that perfect mug of yours,” Michael says settling back against his pillow, feigning indifference. Internally he holds his breath. If Scott falls back into their usual banter with ease then they’re ok. Then it means that Michael hasn’t broken anything vital between them with his little stunt.

“Don’t worry Mikey, the chicks are still going to dig me.”

Good. They’re going to be okay.


End file.
